


bee's knees

by 14winters



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:09:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14winters/pseuds/14winters
Summary: This is based on the comment disheveledcurls left on  this tumblr post, which she graciously allowed me to use as the inspiration for this fic:disheveledcurls said: ok but sherlock holmes giving joan watson this tattoo even though “really, watson, must you engage in puns” but he’s secretly so fucking pleased.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever finished, let alone the first Elementary fic I've ever finished. I am still learning the characters. Constructive criticism is welcome! 
> 
> Also I have a couple more headcanons about Joan getting tattoos from Sherlock, so this is by no means my last tattoo fic with them (nor the last time I write Joan getting her first tattoo from Sherlock).

“You want it where, Watson?”

He drew out the ‘where’ with a strong emphasis on the ‘h’ sound, and in his British accent it sounded even more incredulous. Joan smiled up at him from where she sat on the library’s red couch, cold case files spread around her.

“On my knee. My right,” she said, tapping the bare skin above her knee for emphasis she knew Sherlock didn’t need. She wore pajama shorts and her feet were flat on the floor, giving Sherlock an optimal view of the area of skin in question.

“I have observed your dry wit on occasion, Watson, but this is taking it a bit far,” he said, still frowning at her right knee.

“I’m serious, Sherlock,” she said, a laugh escaping on the last syllable of his name.

“Quite the opposite, it would seem.” His eyes finally came back to her face. She laughed again at his expression. He didn’t look so much disgusted as a mix of amazed and disapproving.

“Do you want to give me the tattoo or not?” she said, taking off her reading glasses and raising her brows at him.

“Would it matter if _I_ gave it to you or not?” he asked, his gaze becoming furtive. He had his hands behind his back but he rocked on his heels, once, twice, and Joan knew he wanted a serious answer.

“Of course it matters,” she said, tilting her head to one side, her gaze intent on his face.

Their eyes locked for a few silent seconds, then suddenly Sherlock whirled on his heel and headed toward the kitchen. “Fine! If you must engage in puns that will be permanently inked on your body, Watson, far be it for me to stop you,” he yelled over his shoulder.

Joan resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but didn’t bother suppressing her grin. Knowing he would want to stew over it for a while, she put her glasses back in place and continued reading.

-

Sherlock apparently had a padded tattoo table shoved in some unknown corner of the brownstone, because she came home from the market the next day to find him cleaning it in the lock room, the red table shoved to one side.

“Ah, Watson,” he said cheerily, spotting her and straightening to almost smile at her. “My preparations are almost complete.” He had that wide-eyed stare that told her he was excited but trying to tamp it down.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Your attitude’s changed from yesterday,” she said warily, walking past him to bring her groceries down to the kitchen. He followed, and she could just see him do that conceding nod to the side like he was actually showing defeat without admitting to it.

“Yes, well, after giving it some thought, I find it a rather fitting decision on your part,” he said to her back, a couple feet behind her as they made their way down the stairs.

“How is that,” she said, it not sounding like a question at all, because she knew he was about to tell her regardless of what she said. Her mouth was curled in a smirk, but he didn’t see it, still standing behind her as she set her groceries on the kitchen counter.

He’d presented her with an edited design of her tattoo the night before, based mostly on the sketch and description she’d given—and exactly what she’d wanted. It was Euglassia Watsonia, as he perceived it, she knew it was. He didn’t even have to say the words. She’d taken the drawing from his outthrust hand and beamed her approval, and as usual they said not a word about it after that.

Now she could see him, standing a few respectful feet behind her in the kitchen, rocking on his heels, his chin slightly thrust forward as he prepared to regale her with his reasoning before she even turned around. But she did, and found him exactly as she pictured. Her knowing smirk was gone, her blank, expectant mask in place. If he knew how pleased she was now, she wouldn’t be able to stand him.

“The placement of your tattoo notwithstanding, I am…glad you’ve finally chosen to allow me the privilege of giving it to you,” he said, his voice and expression solemn. His hands were fists at his sides now, telling her he was expressing more than he was exactly comfortable with, but going forward nonetheless. She wanted to take his hands in hers, but like so many times before she resisted and stayed where she was, looking straight into his eyes and waiting.

“And I see the merit in deciding to put it in such a visible spot. You wardrobe choices give you an advantage,” he said, his eyes going down again to her right knee, which was, again, bare, since she’d chosen to wear a skirt that day. “I believe my negative attitude yesterday was a result of expecting your natural reserve to be reflected in your tattoo placement. I was mistaken.”

He had been moving his right hand in a vaguely circular motion, gesturing to one side, and at the conclusion of his words, he grasped both hands behind his back and waited.

Joan let the smirk come back onto her face for him to see. “Did my ‘natural reserve’ also tell you I would never get a tattoo from you?”

He stayed mute at that. They exchanged a knowing, almost challenging look. Joan silently raised her brows at him, before she turned and began putting groceries away. “Let me know when everything’s ready upstairs, I’ll be up in a bit,” she said.

Joan heard his steps retreating and couldn't keep the grin from spreading over her face. She anticipated getting this tattoo from him probably much more than he realized. 

-

After applying the stencil to the skin just above her right knee, Sherlock studied his handiwork carefully, then looked up at Joan in silent question.

Sitting up on the tattoo table, an old sheet draped over it and a pillow for her head if she wished to lay down, Joan studied the lines he would trace with permanent ink and felt another thrill of excitement.

Euglassia Watsonia had its head pointed upward, it's wings outspread. It was about the size of a one dollar coin, and meticulously drawn. She thought of all the times she would trace its design when it was finished, glancing at it as she worked and letting it remind her. 

"It looks perfect," she said, giving Sherlock a closed mouth smile, her eyes lighting up. He stared blankly at her a moment, a look that gave away a slight puzzlement she doubted he meant to reveal.

"As you say, Watson," he said, his tone a bit softer than she expected. And he bent to his work. 

Joan found herself noticing the contrast between his black gloves touching her skin, and the brush of his arm hairs against her leg. This was about as intimate as any contact they'd ever had in the four years they'd known each other. She studied his expression before looking at his work. He was intent, his brows slightly creased, the same look he got when a case or an experiment was giving him a particular focus. A focus he gave so many things, yet in this moment it meant a lot to her. 

She sat up, leaning back on her hands for a few minutes, watching him work. The pain wasn't excruciating, and she was far more interested in watching her tattoo take shape and the movements of Sherlock's hands over her skin than worrying about the pain. It was all temporary—she focused on what she wanted to hold on to. 

But eventually her arms got tired and she had to lay back with her head on the pillow. The slight buzzing of the tattoo gun and their soft breaths were the only sounds in the room. Joan closed her eyes for a while, still concentrating on each brush of Sherlock's skin on hers. What would her next tattoo be? 

"Sherlock?" She said, choosing a moment he had drawn back to put more ink on the gun, so she wouldn't startle him. He hummed his response. 

"What was your first tattoo?"

There was a beat of silence when she knew he was readying himself to continue working on her tattoo. Then the buzzing of the gun began again, and the sterile yet warm touch of his gloves sent a foreign warmth through her limbs.

“The Scorpio sign on my left hip,” he said. There wasn’t the usual snap of emphasis on the last syllable, and Joan could hear him drawing inward.

“I’ve wondered about that,” she said, looking up at the brownstone ceiling and picturing the small Scorpio tattoo in her mind. “But you’re a Libra. Why did you get a Scorpio tattoo?” It struck her as odd in the first place that he would get an astrological sign on his body—he didn’t strike her as one who put any stock in horoscopes. She had long guessed it must’ve been a lover’s sign—maybe even “Irene’s”. Or maybe he’d just been high when he’d gotten it.

Several seconds passed, in which the buzzing of the tattoo gun continued and Joan began to wonder if he just wouldn’t answer.

“My mother was a Scorpio,” he said finally, his voice taking on the matter-of-fact tone that wasn’t quite detached enough for Joan to believe it. “Our nurse told us, after she died, that she had been fond of horoscopes. Would read hers, and our father’s, and mine, and Mycroft’s, every single day.”

When she felt Sherlock lean away from her, she sat up again to look at him. He was intent on his work, and did not return her gaze. There was a tightness around his mouth, and in his movements, that hadn’t been there before. She decided to drop the subject, only humming softly in response.

Then she looked down at her tattoo. A grin spread uncontrollably across her face. It was nearly finished. Sherlock finally looked at her, giving her a tight-lipped smile in return.

Joan watched him finish. After he’d put on the ointment and bandaged it for her, he looked up and gave her his closest approximation of a grin.

“Well, Watson, you are now, permanently, the bee’s knees,” he said, the cheer in his voice only mocking enough to tell her he was actually pleased.

His gloved hand rested on the table next to her knee. She placed her hand over it and smiled back at him. “Thank you, Sherlock,” she said, wanting to squeeze his hand but pulling hers slowly away instead.

He blinked once at her. When her hand moved away, he leaned back and cleared his throat, at the same time getting swiftly to his feet and offering her his still gloved hand to help her down off the tattoo table. They began cleaning up his work station in companionable silence.

Joan kept her smile inward, but couldn’t help thinking about her next tattoo. She knew she wouldn’t be able to pull off another pun, but her next tattoo from Sherlock was definitely going to go above the waist.

 

 

 


End file.
